


My Funny Valentine

by NoLessLuminous



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Inspired by Music, M/M, Music is sexy and so are good musicians, Sherlock's Violin, So Sherlock finds an audience, The frailty of genius is that it needs an audience, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:19:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoLessLuminous/pseuds/NoLessLuminous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In retrospect, John supposed that it hadn't been the wisest move to cut out early from his date on the 13th of February. To be fair, it hadn't been one of Sherlock's fake emergencies. No, instead it had been a rapid stream of unanswered phone calls from Mrs. Hudson, culminating in an almost indecipherably frantic voicemail, the only distinguishable words of which were "Sherlock," "fire," and (puzzlingly) "bring home some bicarbonate of soda."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired in large part by Ella Fitzgerald's classic rendition of "My Funny Valentine" (which you should go listen to after this fic, if you are not familiar, since it is phenomenal), but for the purposes of your imaginings, these renditions are more useful:
> 
> For the [scene in which Sherlock is playing in the flat.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9jP6PqDt6eo)  
> And the [scene at the restaurant.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ATi04Q67c4A)
> 
> If you don't know the song already, go ahead and listen to them at the appropriate times when John does. The revealing lyrics are super cute. See you at the end!

In retrospect, John supposed that it hadn't been the wisest move to cut out early from his date with Linda on the 13th of February. To be fair, it hadn't been one of Sherlock's fake emergencies that had led him to nearly choke on his drink at the cosy little restaurant where he and Linda had, up until that point, been having a blessedly quiet dinner. No, instead it had been a rapid stream of unanswered phone calls from Mrs. Hudson, culminating in an almost indecipherably frantic voicemail, the only distinguishable words of which were "Sherlock," "fire," and (puzzlingly) "bring home some bicarbonate of soda."

John had hurriedly excused himself, in his concern forgetting that it had been his turn to pay for dinner, and raced off toward Baker Street. His cab had not quite finished rolling to a stop in front of 221B when he'd thrown open his door and tumbled out. Their flat's front door had been standing uncustomarily ajar, confirming that something catastrophic had indeed occurred, and the front hallway had been clouded with as-yet undispersed smoke. When he called out for Mrs. Hudson, her response had drawn him to her even-more-smoky kitchen.

Reaching that hazy room, though, John had been met with the sight of Sherlock lounging at the table with a cup of tea, and Mrs. Hudson waving a tea towel near the stove in an ineffectual effort to shoo the smoke out the open window. A solidifying pile of grease-soaked white powder on the stove had rather effectively clarified the situation, though Mrs. Hudson had also supplied her own summary of the events that had apparently so traumatized her - "Oh, John, dear, I was just frying up some sausages for dinner when the stove caught fire! Sherlock put it out, bless his heart, but he used up all my bicarbonate of soda, and I'm meant to make buns for the church bake sale tomorrow... what happened to that lovely date of yours, by the way? I thought you were out for the night?" Sherlock had quirked a brow, seconding the question. John had sworn and pulled out his phone in a belated attempt to remedy the situation with Linda.

Not that it had done any good, in the end. Linda, in the way of nearly every woman John had dated since returning to civilian life, had made disparaging remarks about John's overdeveloped sense of attachment to his flatmate and hung up. Even his efforts to bring her flowers at work the following day had only led to his being turned away as kindly as possible by Linda's sympathetic secretary. Rehashing all the shortcomings of the last 24 hours in his head, John slumped dejectedly down in his seat on the tube and tossed the bouquet away onto one of the seats beside him. Maybe some other poor bloke could get some use of the sodding things.

The building still smelled vaguely of smoke when John stomped in the front door, though it had been masked significantly by the sweet, yeasty smell of Mrs. Hudson's baking. The soft violin strains that had been flowing down the stairs paused briefly with the jarring noise of the slamming door, then resumed. The melancholic melody suited John's mood well enough. He flopped down in his customary chair in the sitting room, closed his eyes, and laid his head back. For a few minutes, he let the minor chords wash over him, until, with a satisfying major resolution, the song ended and silence fell.

John opened his eyes and heaved a sigh. Sherlock glanced across at him from the other side of the room, where he was delicately laying down his instrument on the table. "It didn't go well with Linda, then." John didn't bother to respond; this was the mad genius of deductive reasoning. It hadn't been a question.

He gave a slight shake of his head. "Best cancel those dinner reservations, I suppose." He shifted in his seat to dig his phone out of his pocket.

Sherlock looked up sharply. "Actually, no. Don't."

"Hm? Why's that, then? Have you got a date?" John asked peevishly. A flicker of jealousy flared up at the thought. Leave it to Sherlock to foil his flatmate's every attempt at a relationship, then really drive it home by usurping his Valentine's plans.

"I had _planned_ to offer to buy _you_ dinner, but if you'd rather sit and sulk about your poor choice in romantic partners, have it your way."

John raised his eyebrows incredulously. Sherlock volunteering not only to eat, but to pay? Perhaps he had fallen asleep in his chair and not realized it. "Ehm, Sherlock... I appreciate the thought, but... You _do_ realise what it would look like, the two of us going out to a romantically-themed dinner at a posh French restaurant on Valentine's Day, of all days?"

Sherlock's eyebrows drew down in a look of puzzled dismissal. "I fail to see how either public opinion or an arbitrary holiday have any bearing on whether you and I choose to have dinner on a given evening. Besides, it would be a pity not to make use of the reservation, since you went to the trouble of obtaining it, and I am rather interested to see whether the place is worthy of its reputation."

He should have known that Sherlock would notice the difficulty and numerous phone calls he'd gone through in order to secure the reservation without relying on his flatmate's seemingly limitless connections. He'd been rather proud of that, so he was inordinately pleased at the detective's acknowledgment of it.

John quickly ran a mental tally of those friends whose plans for the evening he knew; none of them coincided with his own. He loosed a long-suffering sigh and heaved himself out of his chair. "Right, fine, let's go. I'd best get changed, then." He surveyed Sherlock's standard not-on-a-case attire with an amused eye: the dressing gown hanging loose from his shoulders, the cotton pyjama bottoms riding low on his hips, the grey shirt worn soft with use and washing... He dragged his eyes back up to the self-satisfied look on Sherlock's face and offered a wry smile. "You probably should too, yeah? Reservation's in an hour."

***

The restaurant had gone perhaps a bit cheesily overboard with the festively romantic decor. Everything - tables, windows, the small raised stage for the musicians in the corner - was swathed in red and pink flowers and gauzy fabric. John tugged awkwardly at the cuffs of his dress shirt in order to avoid meeting anyone's eyes as the hostess led them to to a candle-lit table. Sherlock, appearing completely at ease, cast a bemused look at his flatmate as they sat.

"What a horrible day to have a pollen allergy," Sherlock chuckled. At the confused look on John's face, he inclined his head slightly in the direction of a young couple a few tables over. The young man looked obliviously besotted, while his oh-so-slightly red-eyed beloved attempted to discreetly blow her nose on the linen napkin. John couldn't quite decide between his warring feelings of disgust (eying the napkin in his own lap suspiciously) and hilarity, resulting in an undignified snort.

In the interim between visits from their waiter, Sherlock kept John fighting to stifle his laughter with quiet observations about nearly every surrounding table. When the food eventually arrived, John had a moment to realise that he had forgotten to feel uncomfortable for a full half hour. Dinner with Sherlock was comfortable in a way that it hadn't ever been with Linda... or Sarah, or Jeanette, or really anyone. He waited a moment, ostensibly waiting for his meal to cool, for this revelation to ruin it ( _It? It what? The evening? Their friendship?_ asked the part of his brain not concerned with appearances. _Something, everything,_ replied the insecure rest of him) and was surprised to find that it didn't.

Smiling a bit to himself, John picked up his fork to try to enjoy the meal without overanalyzing why it was so pleasant. When his gaze returned from his introspection once again to outward things, he noticed that Sherlock seemed entranced by something over his shoulder (a twinge of _See? Ruined,_ fluttered through his mind with a whisper of jealousy at its back). John turned a bit to see what had so captured the genius’s usually-fleeting attention.

Ah. The musicians. Bass, harp, keyboard, flute, voice, and violin huddled closer together than was typical for even such an ensemble - crowded, no doubt, by the potted and garlanded flowers strewn on all edges of the stage.

That reminded him... “By the way, what was that song you were playing when I came home this afternoon? One of yours?”

Sherlock darted a glance at John and shook his head. “No,” he replied before returning his attention worshipfully to the little altar of music in the corner. “It’s actually an old jazz standard...” his words trailed off.

“On violin?” John wondered aloud. Mostly to himself, as the only reply he got was a “hm” and a nod by way of acknowledgement. He shrugged and let it drop, starting in on his food. When the ensemble in the corner finished the schmaltzy instrumental piece that had absorbed Sherlock’s attention, the detective rallied enough to take up his fork and pick at his food, though his focus was still decidedly split between his plate and the stage. At least he was eating, John reassured himself as the waiter refilled Sherlock’s wine glass again. That had to be at least the third or fourth glass, and his flatmate continued sipping absently as he listened.

John had nearly finished his meal by the time the musicians took a break. He was pondering the dessert menu when he became aware of the quiet, and of the intense re-focus of his dinner partner’s attention. “Oh. Have they finished, then?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Just having a break. Though I’m not sure how their violinist will fumble through if he doesn’t lay off the scotch; he’s having a hard enough time keeping up as it is.”

John shrugged. “Sounded alright to me.”

“Passable, but certainly not on the same level as the rest of the ensemble,” was Sherlock’s expert assessment as he wobbled to his feet. He seemed surprised, as if the floor were not quite where he had expected it to be. “Excuse me.”

John watched with a mixture of concern and affectionate mirth as his flatmate didn’t quite weave his way to the men’s loo. Once he’d verified that Sherlock made it through the correct door (even having the most astute observer of facts as a flatmate hadn’t quite broken John of certain old habits necessarily formed from nights out with his rugby mates), he turned to do a more thorough examination of the dessert menu.

The menu was more exhaustive and tempting than on an average evening, so John’s first indication that he’d been perusing it for longer than anticipated was the sound of re-tuning going on in the stage corner. His first indication that Sherlock hadn’t been the only one drinking a bit more than usual was when he had to squint and blink a few times to convince himself that yes, that _was_ his friend, violin in hand, taking a place at the edge of the stage. John looked around in confusion, and finally located the no-longer-scotch-drinking violinist at the bar, damp towel pressed to his pale, perspiring forehead and ice water in hand.

When the music began to flow once again from tuning pitches and scales into a song, John had to admit that Sherlock had clearly had the right idea about the old violinist; that, or John was biased because he liked this one better. He found himself staring as intently as his flatmate had been a few minutes prior.

The introduction morphed and evolved and suddenly John recognized the song that Sherlock had played ( _For him, for John,_ that rebellious corner of his mind insisted) earlier. When the singer came in, John strained to catch all of the lyrics, and found himself grinning in spite of himself. The backhanded compliments worked into the verses and refrain were pure Sherlock, even if the song had been written decades before anyone had ever heard of such a thing as a consulting detective:

_Thy vacant brow, and thy tousled hair_  
 _Conceal thy good intent_  
 _Thou noble, upright, truthful, sincere,_  
 _And slightly dopey gent_

The smile refused to fade as the vocalist traded iterations of the melody with Sherlock (John much preferred the evocative embellishment of the violin - perhaps since it seemed so much more heartfelt than the teasing verses, or perhaps just because he allowed himself the prejudice, in his own head). When finally the song came to an end, he discovered that he was not the only one whose eyes had been riveted to the stage; for the first time the diners reacted as an audience and applauded the end of the song.

The ensemble bowed, then resituated themselves to allow Sherlock down the stairs. At the base of the three steps, he handed off the violin to its proper owner, who by now no longer looked likely to vomit. The restaurant’s violinist looked like he was torn between relief at having found a replacement for the momentary respite, and jealousy at the amateur’s superior skill. He finally settled for a flat, humourless smile, which seemed to amuse the consulting detective.

Sherlock was wending his way (with much more grace, this time) back through the tables when John finally caught his eyes. The detective’s gaze shone with such heat, though, that John had to look away, feeling a burning flush rising on his face. He looked up again with a shy smile when the seat across from him was pulled out, and found that his friend was again smirking at his discomfort.

“Oh, sure, I agree to a quiet evening out with my flatmate, and now the whole restaurant is watching, expecting me to snog you any moment now,” John grimaced. He ducked his head to his wine glass, taking a long sip to avoid the stares for as long as possible.

Sherlock had the decency to look at least a little chagrined. “I couldn’t very well let that miserable violinist go up there and vomit on stage, now could I, John? Completely unhygienic.” He cocked an eyebrow and the smirk returned. “Besides which, you had asked what that song was I’d played you earlier. Unsatisfied curiosity is a dangerous thing.”

“Dangerous indeed,” John muttered. He gathered up his courage and leaned across the table a bit more, laying his hand beside Sherlock’s on the table, not quite touching.

The smirk grew to a cocky grin. Sherlock shifted forward and laid his hand over John’s. Lips less than a breath away from John’s ear, he brushed John’s cheek with his own, whispering, “Feeling swayed by public opinion, John?”

John’s face was serious as he angled it to look into Sherlock’s. “Public opinion? No. You were bloody brilliant up there. As always.” He took a shaky breath as his mouth twitched into a wry little smile. “And even if the public may share it at the moment, that opinion was mine first.”

Sherlock looked genuinely pleased at the praise. This time when the heat rose in his eyes, John held his gaze. Well, except when his eyes couldn’t help themselves and darted down to those broad, ridiculously cupid’s-bowed lips. “I think...” John took a less shaky breath this time and continued. “I think I’m going to kiss you now anyway, if you don’t mind. Sod everyone else.”

That splendid mouth flashed teeth in a delighted grin. “By all means.” The hand trapping John’s on the table drew him forward, while the other reached up to splay itself over his jaw and throat. He had to close his eyes and block out everyone else in the room, but when he leaned in, it was nothing but his lips and Sherlock’s, the heat of their hands, and the distant-seeming melodies of the orchestra drifting on the edge of his consciousness.

Well... it was. Until the whole restaurant started applauding again. John found himself ducking his head again and hiding against Sherlock’s neck. A rumbling chuckle shook his hiding space, and he looked up into Sherlock’s grinning face. Slowly he recovered his ability to respond in kind, and soon the pair of them were both shaking with laughter, hands still clasped on the table top.

Which is not to say that John didn’t flag down the server and request their check as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Sherlock eyed him speculatively. “No dessert, John?”

“I was thinking that perhaps we could figure something out back at the flat.” The look of devious intent in his eyes had nothing to do with sugary confections.

“Hmm,” breathed Sherlock, leaning in closer. “I do believe we shall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am thinking of adding a second chapter to this, with what follows once they arrive home buuuuuuuut in the interest of posting this while it is still Valentine's Day here, that will have to wait. Hope you enjoyed the plotty bit!
> 
> (Also, in the interest of time, I am un-beta'd and un-Britpicked, so con-crit is totally welcome!)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John and Sherlock return to 221B and the rating gets changed to an E.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this maybe a day or two after the first chapter, but clearly that didn't happen. My first attempt at writing porny fic did not want to cooperate. Multiple times over the course of writing this chapter, I had the overwhelming urge to just slap "and then they had nekkid sexytimes, the end" on the end of this and call it done. Basically, I'm sorry this chapter took so long, because sexywords, what are those?

By the time their cab reached Baker Street, the effects of the wine were beginning to wear off, and John couldn’t help but wonder how he had dared not only kiss Sherlock, but kiss him with an audience of a few dozen people.

It wasn’t that he regretted anything. Far from it: he was rather disappointed to have to remove himself from the back seat of the cab, where he had been comfortably leaning against his flatmate’s shoulder. It was just that... he wasn’t sure where, sober, he would find the courage to proceed. He had a sudden flash of insightful empathy for his sister’s unfortunate habit.

Sherlock unlocked the door and bounded up the stairs in his inimitable long-legged strides. By the time John carefully closed the door behind himself, Sherlock had hung up his coat and scarf, and was openly staring at him. The look of intense focus that he had directed at the musicians earlier was now locked on the doctor, filing every movement away as if for closer examination later. John tried not to feel self-conscious as he meticulously removed both his jacket and his sport coat and hung them up.

As his hands smoothed the fabric of one jacket sleeve uncertainly, he heard a cautious step behind him. Sherlock moved in close enough for John to feel the taller man’s body heat along his back without quite closing the distance. One large hand settled itself lightly on his shoulder, while the other reached around to John’s chin, turning his face back over the other shoulder until he met Sherlock’s gaze.

John felt an overwhelmingly magnetic pull to simply relax into the warm body so close behind him. With a shiver and a sigh, he gave in, reaching across his chest to clasp Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder.

The intense effort to maintain levity was apparent on Sherlock’s too-serious face. “John, you should know that I very much enjoy this, but...” he hesitated, which brought John’s heart to his throat. Sherlock wet his lips and continued. “...but if sobriety changes this for you, I would hate to-”

John shook his head emphatically and half-turned, moving his hand to grasp the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Sherlock. Just because I don’t know exactly what to do, doesn’t mean that I don’t want very badly to be doing it.” He paused, and took in what he’d just said an instant after the detective snorted with laughter. “Er. I didn’t mean ‘doing...’ well... I suppose I _did_...” He gave up correcting himself as a bad job, and with a “here, you,” used the hand holding Sherlock’s neck to drag him down and stifle his laughter with another kiss.

Their noses knocked a bit awkwardly, but they sorted that quickly. John’s eyes closed again as the laughter-shaken torso against his own stilled. Sherlock’s mouth pressed into his, claimed his lips with its heat and little flicks of the tongue. The hand on his shoulder slid itself down his back and came to rest between his shoulder blades, pushing him in more firmly against Sherlock’s chest. A contented little hum escaped John as he finally gave in and slipped his tongue between Sherlock’s lips. The kiss tasted of sweet wine and smelled of a violin bow’s rosin.

It _felt_ like an undeserved glimpse of heaven.

The hand on Sherlock’s neck tangled itself in the loose curls, which were slightly damp with sweat as a result of soft blue scarves and a bit too much drinking. John’s other hand, oh-so-hesitantly, traced a slow path down the smooth fabric of Sherlock’s shirt to slip through a belt loop and tug those slim hips closer to his own. They writhed against his in a sensuous little wriggle, wherefrom John felt that he could safely deduce that the consulting detective was thoroughly enjoying himself. John felt the smile forming against his lips and matched it with one of his own.

Pulling away with one more quick peck, John leaned his forehead against his friend’s face and studied it. “Married to our work, are we?” he teased. “I’d say I felt bad to make you stray, but I’m rather glad of it at the moment.”

Sherlock’s face sobered. “But I’m not. The job, you, me... I can’t separate them any more. You are a critical part of the work, now... of _me,_ now.”

Ignoring the most problematic parts of that statement for the time being, John took it for the compliment it was intended to be. “Just so long as that same logic doesn’t apply to Lestrade, or Sally Donovan...” he laughed at Sherlock’s exaggerated wince and shudder.

“I couldn’t tolerate so much as _living_ with either of them, much less any form of physical intimacy, I assure you.”

That was another question John had just thought of, actually. “Yes, about that.”

Sherlock sighed as though thoroughly put-upon. “If you’re going to insist on turning this into a _conversation,_ then perhaps we should sit down.” He led John by the hand over to the couch and plonked down heavily. John followed suit, refusing to relinquish his hold on Sherlock’s hand. “Now. About _what_ exactly?”

John stared at their entwined hands and played with Sherlock’s fingers awkwardly. His words came out in a mumble. “I thought you weren’t interested in this kind of thing.” He gestured vaguely between the two of them. “Why now?”

Sherlock ran his free hand through his hair. “It’s not that I’m not at all interested, it’s that people, in general, are not at all interesting,” was his enigmatic reply. John was about to ask for more clarification, but his flatmate had clearly seen the perplexed look on his face and chose to continue. “John. You know how my mind works - I’m constantly looking for things to distract me from boredom, because the mundane aspects of life become tedious so quickly. In uni, like a hormonal young idiot, I tried sex and found it unerringly to be... rather less fascinating than is commonly the case. The tactile and visual input could not hold my attention. It was _boring,_ John, because my partners were boring. Thus, my conclusion was that I was uninterested in sexual pursuits, because the physical distractions were not sufficient incentive to counterbalance the potential for sentimental vulnerability.”

That sounded believably Sherlock-y; John nodded. “But then... what makes me any different?”

Sherlock looked thoroughly vexed. “I don’t know! That’s the part that’s been driving me mad since I noticed it. You are, though.”

John thought for a moment about how he was the only person who would not only put up with his brilliant (and yes, at times, bloody irritating) flatmate - but also about how, after spending one day in his company, John wouldn’t have had it any other way. There wasn’t so much a why to it. Sherlock was something vital to John’s being. The day he’d met Sherlock had, in many ways, been close kin to the day Dorothy landed in Oz; he’d gone from not noticing what was missing from the drab black and white he’d been living in to full immersion in splashy technicolor.

“Well, if you can’t explain it, then I can’t really hope to,” John concluded. “Perhaps I’ve just got enough patience to see through to your brilliance, even when you’re being an insufferable know-it-all, and no one else seems able to do that.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock allowed. John could read the growing impatience in the jiggling of his flatmate’s leg where it rested on on the floor. Heaven forbid they plumb the unfathomable depths of _sentiment_ for too long. He suppressed a smile and stilled the restless leg with his hand on its knee, leaning forward to put his weight on the hand.

“Well, whatever the reason...” He pulled himself closer. “We’ve got plenty of time to work that out later.”

Sherlock seized him eagerly about the waist and neck and brought their lips crashing together. This time, there was nothing tentative about the kiss. John found his lower lip caught between Sherlock’s teeth and let out a little moan. The hand at his waist was making quick work of untucking his dress shirt and finding the skin beneath. Where it trailed across his back, John’s flesh seemed to catch fire, raising gooseflesh in the wake of where it passed. John shivered and freed one hand to fumble with the buttons down Sherlock’s chest.

Finally laying Sherlock’s pale chest bare, John trailed his hands carefully down, tracing the pronounced clavicle, across the pectorals, down to Sherlock’s slightly-too-visible ribs. Sherlock broke the kiss with a startled gasp when their path skimmed, delicately but briefly, across his nipples. The hungry look in his eyes lit with need, and he seized John’s shirt, nearly tearing at the top two buttons before yanking the offending garment over John’s head.

John barked out a quick laugh as, unbalanced, he fell forward and landed with his bare chest flush against Sherlock’s. Untangling his wrist from a still-buttoned cuff became secondary when, with a twist of hips, Sherlock’s leg was suddenly thrust between his own. His eyes fluttered shut with a moan. When he opened them again, they locked on the stormy gaze studying his reaction with immense self-satisfaction. Determined to give as good as he got, John brought a hand back up to trace over Sherlock’s chest again. He lowered himself to press his mouth to the corner of Sherlock’s jaw, laying a trail of open-mouthed kisses along that long neck, following the carotid artery down to the hollow behind the clavicle. Sherlock arched his back and whimpered, trapped between the mouth at his throat and the thumb sliding over the lines of his pectoral and ribs.

The movement shoved his hips harder against John’s own. John’s breath caught in his throat with the friction: the pressure of Sherlock’s hard length against his hip, and of his own erection trapped between their bodies. The detective whimpered again, bringing their lips together hungrily as his hands slid down John’s sides to slip under the waistband of John’s trousers.

Those agile fingers, ensnared between the tightness of the belt and the sensitive skin at John’s waist, pressed into his flesh and traced their way along the barrier of fabric and leather, dragging fingernails lightly along their path. They met below his navel, and one drew down to the warm metal of his belt buckle. The other trailed upward, through the dusting of golden hair that thickened just above the waistline of John’s trousers, and moved their bodies just slightly apart. The belt buckle jingled open, followed shortly by the trouser button behind it.

Retracing their path back around John, both hands slipped below the elastic waistband of his pants, sliding lower until they cupped his arse. Sherlock ground his hips up against John’s, using his hold as leverage to draw the doctor down into the motion. The detective, practically purring with pleasure, arched his neck back, running his lips along John’s cheek as he did so. “You have _no idea_ how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he breathed.

“Should’ve done this sooner, then,” John gasped. “Jesus, Sherlock!” It was nearly all he could do to support some of his own weight; he had to push himself up and away from the maddening distraction of Sherlock’s hard cock alongside his in order to think clearly enough to undo the other man’s belt.

Trousers around his knees, John knelt on the sofa, gazing down at his flatmate. Jesus, if the man didn’t look like an advertisement for some posh clothing line or another. His tousled hair ringed his angular face like the halo of some dark angel, and his eyes burned with a quiksilver fire. One hand rested on the back of the sofa, while the other had draped itself casually across his lower abdominals, the trailing fingers leading the eye to his unfastened trousers. His usually pallid features were flushed with desire as he stared wide-eyed back up at John, caught in a moment of mutual memorization.

And then Sherlock surged forward, rising on his knees to more or less throw himself at John’s mouth. John let out an “oof” of impact as the taller man collided with him, then tried to catch his breath as Sherlock made every effort to steal it. Sherlock’s tongue, caressing his lips open; Sherlock’s hands, clutching at the bunched muscles of his back; Sherlock’s chest, crushed against his and all but glued there with their sweat. John’s hands, pushing the trousers from those narrow hips, sliding down the line of Sherlock’s side, armpits to knees, catching on the lower hem of Sherlock’s silken boxers on their way back up. And all the while, those plush lips bearing down insistently on his, and John having no choice but to press right back, to try to pressure-weld themselves together at the lip, forging something new and beautiful and right and _god_ if it wasn’t the hottest thing that John had ever experienced in his life.

Sherlock’s tongue smoothed over his own, traced the line of his teeth, drew back from John’s mouth to his own. He drew John’s lower lip back with it, bit down gently, ran that clever tongue along the line of trapped flesh. A moan escaped John. He clung to Sherlock, hands grasping at the detective’s arse and hipbone. Sherlock trembled at the sound and released his hold on the shorter man’s back, darting to tug impatiently at the waistband of John’s pants.

The elastic caught on the head of John’s straining cock, and he drew in a quick breath as Sherlock’s hand slid forward to free it. One dextrous hand skimmed along his length while the other worked the elastic free of its entanglement... and suddenly he was bare in Sherlock’s hand. He rutted against Sherlock’s palm, bringing his face forward to reclaim Sherlock’s lips and swallow the gasp as it escaped the detective’s lips. Then long fingers traced their way along the length of him, the pad of Sherlock’s thumb meandering across the glans, trailing pre-ejaculate fluid down the crown as it came to rest against his fraenulum. When Sherlock repeated the motion more firmly a few times, John found himself panting for breath and yanking frantically at the other man’s boxers in an effort to make it possible to drive him to similar distraction.

Sherlock hummed out a moan when the smooth fabric slid from his hips and John’s hands blindly found the hard length of his cock. He bowed his back, bringing his head to rest on John’s shoulder, and for a moment, they paused there, both panting for breath. Then Sherlock brought his head up and just _stared_ at John in uncustomary awe and wonder.

“My god, John...” And their mouths were suddenly crushed together again, tongues desperately seeking one another as their sweaty palms tightened each around the other, the knuckles of John’s hand brushing Sherlock’s between them. Frantically now, John thrust into the ring of Sherlock’s broad palm, and Sherlock into his, the coronas of their pricks gliding across one another at the height of each thrust.

 _More air, need more air,_ screamed John’s brain, throwing his head back and sucking in huge gulps. “Jesus, Sh-sherlock!” The hand on his cock gripped him just that tiny bit harder, drove him just that tiny bit faster, and John had just enough presence of mind to return the favor as the pressure built, his muscles tightened and shivered and - “Ah, _Sherlock!_ Shit!” - he couldn’t stand it any more and Sherlock worked him through his release all over both of their stomachs and the couch. The detective was studying his face when his eyes rolled back, and were still locked on him, pupils fully blown, when he could refocus. The sight and sound and feel of John coming completely undone before him seemed to just plain _do it_ for him, and abruptly he was shaking and groaning and collapsing stickily against John and the back of the sofa.

John let himself fall beside his mad detective, leaning his head onto a bony shoulder, and for a few minutes, they just breathed and clasped tired hands.

Finally John looked down at their sticky bellies with a sigh and heaved himself forward on the couch. “I suppose we should clean up a bit... I don’t fancy waking up stuck to the sofa.”

Sherlock peeled himself free of the gooey leather. Casting about for some sort of towel to wipe them down, he snorted.

“May as well just use your shirt to tidy up,” the detective chuckled. He gestured at the heap of discarded cotton beside the couch which, on further inspection, had apparently not been far enough out of firing range, as it were.

“Bother, that was one of the good ones,” John lamented, as Sherlock used the lost cause of a garment to wipe down his abdomen and offered it to the doctor.

Sherlock stood up and stretched languidly like a particularly contented cat. “We’ll have it dry cleaned. Or framed. I’ll buy you a new shirt,” Sherlock suggested, starting for the hallway. “Stop worrying, John.”

John looked up at the beautiful naked man staring back at him, already worrying about a new question. Sherlock read it in his eyes and padded back across the floor, coming to kneel in front of the shorter man and resting his hands on John’s bare knees.

“You know I hate to repeat myself, John. Stop worrying so much-” one hand came up to trace its way along John’s hairline to tuck itself behind his ear, and Sherlock rose on his knees to ghost his lips across John’s temple - “and come to bed.”

John let out the half formed concern - _what if this is all he wants_ \- along with his tense breath. He let Sherlock lead him by the hand again, this time to the downstairs bedroom. When the door closed, he found himself pressed back against it, an arm trapping him on either side of his head, and Sherlock’s mouth once again on his own. Softly, tenderly, he was kissed and pulled to the bed. Sherlock dragged him down into the slippery-smooth sheets and wrapped his long limbs around John’s back, nuzzling into John’s neck.

With a sigh, John let himself settle back into the embrace, relaxing into the soft warmth of Sherlock’s bed. He was certain that the electric thrill of awareness of the body behind him would not let him sleep, yet soon his eyes were drifting shut.

Later, he couldn’t have sworn whether the words were real or part of a dream: “Stay,” Sherlock murmured into his ear as he sank below the surface of sleep. “Little Valentine, Stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, but really: thanks tons for reading, I hope you enjoyed. Con-crit welcome; comments are love :D


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